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footstool

This morning we are preparing the house for yet another lost puppy. I mean, another house guest. A friend who is recovering from surgery has asked for a different venue of recovery – within an eight week recovery of “don’t you dare do X or you’ll screw up the recovery.”

In an ideal world, I’d have helped Madame around the house naked and collared. But in our current situation it’s a case of just running around the house in jammies and getting things done.

But we took a moment at the end of the cleanup and moving of things to settle into the dining room. She in the comfy dining room chair, me kneeling at her feet.

“Get on your hands knees facing the plant” I did so, puzzled. “Closer” she added. I moved closer. “I like footstools closer.”

And so I was her footstool for a few minutes until the tea kettle whistled and I was directed to handle the kettle.

Just snippets of how I serve her and a glimpse at how I’d sometimes like to serve her as well. But that’s how we do it in our world. And we’re good with that.